


My Choice

by hlravensnest_archivist



Category: Highlander: The Raven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-31
Updated: 1999-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-16 21:52:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11837766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlravensnest_archivist/pseuds/hlravensnest_archivist
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atHL Raven's Nest. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onHL Raven's Nest's collection profile.





	My Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HL Raven's Nest](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HL_Raven%27s_Nest). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HL Raven's Nest's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hlravensnest/profile).

My Choice by Highlandlass

_My Choice_

by Highlandlass 

  | 

Best viewed at 800x600+ 

Yes, I'm still around. I kinda left the Highlander Universe of fan fiction to write X-Files fanfic. It's been a blast doing that but I had to clean up this story I began over 4-5 months ago and so I have. I hope you enjoy it. 

FEEDBACK: YES PLEASE!!!!!!!!!!!!! ;-) 

* * *

Turning my bleary-eyed gaze toward my jacket-turned-lump that graces the back of my desk chair, I spend too much time noticing that it kinda looks like one of those back cushions my dad used to have for that lower lumbar pain. I hear it's hereditary. 

No use me worrying about that, not now. 

The jacket is all twisted and tangled up. Should probably straighten it out, it's not good for the leather but... ah...fuck it. 

Gripping the hand-warmed bottleneck of bourbon, I bring the bottle to my lips yet again as I fall into said chair. 

The liquid streams over my tongue but damn if I can taste this shit any more. I lost the ability to really taste anything two...no, three hours ago? Who knows? My tongue feels like it's covered with pool table felt. 

I glance past the desk lamp, beyond the computer monitor, my darkened bed, back further to the shadowed rest of my room, noting the open glass doors. The spring breeze dances with the soft sway of curtains exposing the speckled night to me. 

The sight is partnered by the smell of garlic and sautéed food that sashays its way toward me from the over-priced restaurant beneath my apartment. 

The wafting aroma curls it's savory smell against my nose, beckoning me to trek down the side stairs and partake of the rich food, but it fails. 

I brush the temptation away like a pesky fly, opting to take another swig of my dinner of choice. 

But, taking another drink doesn't help me dull my thoughts into that flat line of inactivity I've been striving to attain. 

How much do I have to drink of this shit, anyway? 

I moan. 

God, I'm just so tired of thinking, of remembering. I'm just...tired period but it's all I've done all friggin' night. Jesus! If I could only...only...block these damn images from my mind then maybe I could pass out, be rewarded for my four hour binge of Russia's finest. 

Is that too much to ask? 

I guess so. I'm must be one unlucky bastard cuz like some freak show, I don't pass out and this horror of memories keep playin' over and over in my mind, this real-fucking-life nightmare. 

* * *

**Earlier Today, Paris, 4PM  
Abandoned Warehouse**

Christ, the bullet, the impact shattering my bones, tearing tissue, decompressing my breath like a broken 747 window in flight. I can't...I can't. breathe. 

Blood -- feel it coating my tongue, tangy and metallic, like licking copper. Each breath smaller and smaller. I need to come up for air, I need to break the surface, I can't.... 

My vision is fading, my eyes widening. It's gotta be shock, shock as my slow motion glance falls to her gun back then struggles up to her tear streaked eyes...darkness gripping me, my hearing a hollow tin tunnel. 

Everything around me moves in cartoon slowness and I can't speed it up...I can't...I'm dying, Oh God, I'm really fucking dying. Why did she shoot me? 

why? WHy? WHY? 

* * *

**Present, Nick's Apartment**

Nothing, back in my room...alive when I should be dead. 

Alive. 

I growl, shaking my head and slamming the bottle onto the desktop in front of me. The impact rattles the lamp into flickers, flutters the papers and causes a bit of the alcohol to slosh onto the desk mat. 

The rest of the room still remains in filtered shadows that are dull and heavy like my thoughts...my thoughts that won't fucking stop my memories. 

I wipe at my face, brushing off the tears that have fallen down my cheeks before running a hand through my hair. I lie my head on the desk, on top of the scattered papers. 

Closing my eyes, I'm trapped, trapped as my memories take over once again... 

* * *

**Earlier Today, Paris, 4 PM  
Abandoned Warehouse**

My head hurts as we walk through the dank warehouse that smells like grease and rusted metal. We walk away from the filthy spot of my death, away from the area of my rebirth, more specifically, away from what I have ever known my life to be...just...just away. 

I...I, oh Jesus! 

"How long have you known?" my voice, its tone leadened, ricochets off the surrounding gray walls, walls that feel like they're closing in on me. It is the first question that replays in my mind over and over again. It's the first question I put to Amanda. 

"Since the day we met," she replies, so soft that I feel like I can barely hear her. 

Finally this pounding hiss, buzz, whatever, begins to fade away, its strangle hold on my temples showing a bit of mercy, allowing me to ask my next question. 

"Which is why you told me what you were." 

"Yeah...and because I trusted you with my life," she says, her voice imploring me. Imploring me to what? To forgive her? I can feel my anger growing, coloring my sight in bursts of red angry fire. 

"But you didn't bother to share it with me --" 

"It wasn't my place," she interrupts, grabbing my arm, halting our exit. The walls crawl closer. 

I shrug her hand off of me, "But it was your place to shoot me?" 

"Immortality is triggered by a violent death. The poison Payton gave you was slow acting and it would kill you...forever," she said, her eyes pleading with me to understand but all I can understand is that she has decided my fate. She has condemned me to...to this. 

"Only you couldn't just let that happen?" I don't really ask. I am feeling sick, my stomach feels like it is boiling bile, bile that wants to crawl up my throat and I almost let it. 

My breath becomes ragged as I hear her words, taking a second to make sense of their meaning. 

"No," she whispers, tilting her head before looking into my eyes again. 

Of course she couldn't let me die, of course not. She's the judge, jury and executioner. 

I watch, as if mesmerized, her tears build up into fat droplets that seem to slide down her cheeks in slow motion before slipping off her face and exploding upon the dirty cement beneath our feet. 

And still the walls creep closer, stifling me with their presence, stifling me as she is with her words of excuse. 

I look in her eyes again and in those eyes I see my death denied. 

"But it was my life!!!!" I yell, fighting her tears with the heat of my words. 

"Now it's your life...forever. I've given you a gift." 

I step forward, making sure she can see my eyes, she can see the clarity of my thoughts as well as the disbelief that fortifies my words. "You call this a gift?" 

She flinches before answering, "Yeah." 

yeah? yeAH? YEAH? 

Echoes echoing and drilling into me. Her answer soaks my mind, spinning around and coating my anger in shards of pricking glass. 

"Hundreds, maybe thousands of years of life and all I have to do is go around decapitating people to survive like you, and that's a gift?" I ask, incredulously anger. Doesn't she see? Doesn't she understand? 

Of course not, how can she? 

Crying. She's still crying. 

I don't want her tears. 

"But you'll see things you never imagined," she implores, stepping forward. 

I met her step, my face inches from hers, close as a dawning kiss. 

"It's not a dream, it's a nightmare." I growl the words against her cheek, not meeting her eyes until I utter the last syllable. 

I turn, walking away. 

Treading up the metal stairs, I pause as I reach the landing. I desperately want to escape from this dilapidated womb of death, it's rusty machinery scenting the air, the cracked and crumbling walls still inching toward me, yet I can't leave, not just yet. 

My confusion, my life forever altered, I say to her, describe to her what she has done to me with little hope of her understanding what she has taken for granted for over a millennium. 

"Once...everything was clear, good guys and bad guys...life and death. Then you meet someone...someone you want to love, and it all changes. Death brings life, life brings death, what room is there for love, when there can be only one?" 

I reach the door and tug it open, letting it squeak closed behind me as the overcast sky greets my new life. 

* * *

**Present, Nick's Apartment**

I moan, furiously scratching my hand through my hair again before letting my palm fall onto the keyboard in front of me. 

Immortal. It's the one word, the one curse, that keeps fucking with my thoughts. 

Immortal. How could she doe this to me? 

To ME? 

Is she too damn old to remember a life with the prospect of age spots and wrinkled skin? 

Immortal - FUCK! 

Snarling, I clumsily push myself away from the desk. Shit, I guess I am drunk. 

Turning from it, I end up scraping my damn leg on the sharp corner edge. 

Damn it! I grip my leg, stumbling through the light peppered darkness, over to my bed that's a couple of blessed feet away. 

Clutching the bourbon against my chest, I heavily crash onto the rumpled bedsheets. 

"Shit!!" 

Landing my ass on the bed, the damn alcohol sloshes out of the bottle, spreading across my black t-shirt and causing my skin to itch in sticky patches of wetness. I toss my head back, blindly staring at the ceiling. 

And the hits just keep on coming! 

Rubbing my forearm over my gritty face, I feel the rough porcupine stubble of growth shadowing my features. 

By the growth rate, I know it's gotta be after ten pm. 

Groaning, I feel so fucking tired -- tired and dirty, but hey, I guess dying has that affect on a guy. 

You know, how much fucking alcohol do I have to drink now to pass out, already!! 

Dying. Death. Dead. Joke's on me and it's just so fucking hilarious! 

Giving a disgusted snort, I take another draught of booze before falling back against the soft bed. My arm flings out, hanging over the side of the mattress. Feeling the bottle slowly slip from my fingertips, I let it fall. 

It hits the floor with a solid, yet dull thud. I sigh, turning to huddle on my side, facing the open French doors that still scream life and laughter from the streets below - both of which seem to be ridiculing me. 

Squinting my eyes closed, I try to tune the outside world out. 

Must have succeeded because the next time I'm able to crack open an eye, I can no longer see the moon through the open doors. 

My head feels foggy, coupled with a rising, sizzling, sensation that I swear is fryin' my brain from inside out. 

"Nick?" 

Shit, Amanda, of course. 

I grip my head, rubbing my fingers over my sweaty temples as I turn over and press my face into the bedding. I try to tame the compounded torture of alcohol and immortal lo-jack. 

Damn it! It feels like my scull is volunteering to be torn in two with this thrumming...this, I don't know...awareness...warning, no, pain in the ass - head, whatever -- jack hammering its merry way through my brain, crushing me. 

I'm never drinking again!! 

"Nick," Amanda calls through my apartment door. 

Oh, thank Fucking Christ! The pounding sensation is muting, allowing some semblance of thought to fire the alcohol marinated synapses in my brain. 

Great, just what I wanted...to think. 

I don't answer her. Instead, I pull my face out of the clumped covers and groan as I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. 

Rubbing my palms against my eye, I ferret out the sticky shit that seems to have sealed them shut. 

Blinking finally, I find myself staring out the window, blindly gazing at the Parisian nightscape. 

"Nick, please," Amanda implores yet again. 

I can hear her scratching her nails against the patterned door, trying to coax me to open it. 

No fucking chance! 

Grunting again, a twisted laugh barks from my lips, muffled in my hands that cover my face, yet the sound still seems to explode in the darkness around me. 

"Go A - Way, Amanda," I order, removing my palms from my mouth while still stroking pressure against my eyes and forehead. 

Knowing that if she wanted to, she would break into the room, I patiently wait to find out her next play. Not that it mattered any, the door's not even locked. I remember just slamming it behind me as I walked into the room, tossing my jacket off and twisting the cap free of one of my newly acquired bottles of bourbon before I collapsed at my desk. 

Besides, what would have been the point of locking it? Amanda does and goes wherever the hell she wants. 

"All right, Nick, " she says in a soft, whispered tone before her voice strengthens," But we need to talk...about all this, training...what we're going to do...there's so much to talk abou..." 

"I SAID GO A-WAY, AMANDA!" I yell, interrupting her. 

My anger manifests into this form of energy that I can feel keeping me company. I'm unable to control it, and nor do I want to as I scream the words at the top of my lungs, my voice raspy, my throat sore, "LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!" 

I can't...I just can't bear to even look at her. Jesus Christ, not now. Every time I see her in my mind the knots in my gut twist into a choke hold, bending me over into dry heaves. 

No matter what she claimed, how she lied or what she refused to tell me, the bottom line was that she had taken away my choice. 

MY CHOICE! 

It was my right to decide whether I wanted to live or die. But no, she made sure that it wasn't. And now I'm forced to live a life that sickens me, that goes against what I've built my whole adult existence around. 

Protect lives, not take them. Throw murderers in jail, don't become one. 

Don't become one. 

Finally, she leaves, I can feel her presence slipping away from me like slowly releasing fingers. 

Tearing my gaze from the window, I peer up at the raised ceiling, shifting my position to lie back down on my back. I reach over the edge of the bed for the bourbon, my hand grabbing for the bottleneck. 

My fingertips brush against the mouth until I am finally able to clasp it, picking it off the floor and bringing the bottle to my lips. 

Nothing. 

Damn! 

Empty. 

I slowly sit up, my head catching up with my body as I scoot my ass to the edge of the bed, my feet tapping down against the wooden floor as they reach the polished planks again. 

Amanda might have left but now my head feels like it's on spin cycle. My stomach partners my brain as it busies itself by performing gastroral cartwheels. 

So, immortals can get sick...guess that's good to know. 

I catch my darkened reflection in the floor-length mirror across from the bed. 

Funny, I don't look any different. Well, that's not true. I look and feel like shit -- and that's being generous. 

A cynical laugh escapes my lips before turning into a weary sigh. 

Initially, it really had seemed impossible to get drunk. At least, that's what I'd thought after finishing the first bottle of bourbon without incident. Now...well, now that the third one is gone, I can't even feel my toes move when I wiggle them. 

I wouldn't be surprised to know that I'm quickly killing myself with alcohol poisoning. 

Ah, don't matter. I'm feelin' no pain, just disgustingly sick. Maybe a quick death wouldn't be so bad right about now, it's not like I won't revive. 

Fuck it! 

Staring harder at my reflection, it slowly drifts into my inebriated brain that the more I look at myself, the angrier I'm beginning to feel. My wrath-like companion, buddy extraordinaire, feels like it's splitting, multiplying like cells and growing beside me. 

I can feel a mass of focused rage masking my features. I can't...I'm finding I can't bear to look at myself any longer. 

Gripping the bottleneck firmly in fist, I forcefully fling it and watch as the sailing missile hits the mirror, shattering it into a multitude of pieces. Flecks of silvered glass litter the carpet and bureau. 

When I look at the mirror again, I can see the frame clutching onto a lingering fan of shards, but not only that, I can see myself reflected in the prism-like remains. 

I feel fear pushing the alcohol aside and taking its turn to fertilize my senses as a thought grips me. 

What if each sliver represents an assigned lifetime for me to live through, to kill through? 

I don't profess to be much of a religious man, but I squeeze my eyes shut and vehemently pray that that isn't the case. 

* * *

**Amanda's Bar, Sanctuary**

Amanda sat at her bar, nursing her drink of choice, Martini - neat. No matter how much she tried to toss it off, to not care, she knew she was lying to herself. She knew she couldn't play the game of nonchalance, knew she lost it when she decided to stay in Nick Wolfe's life. 

What the hell was she thinking? Why hadn't she disappeared back to Paris and its boutiques the first time she saw him? 

Because, for some damnable reason, she couldn't. Maybe it was his eyes...no, maybe it was his heart. She saw so much in him that she couldn't leave him to fate, to possibly die without a chance of survival. 

Was it worth it? 

Doesn't matter now. Now, she felt like she'd been the one shot in the chest. Her heart bled steadily with the echoes of his anger, his words still slapping at her as he walked away from her. 

_It's not a dream, it's a nightmare._

The fun house image of him reviving in her arms paraded around her thoughts, partnered with the bitter accusations and recriminations that he thrust at her as he paused at those creaking, metal steps, the sounds a backdrop to his gutting words. 

_Death brings life, life brings death, what room is there for love, when there can be only one?_

Again, was it worth it? 

He's alive. So yes, it was worth it. 

Love? Perhaps even time for that as well. 

She wished more than ever that Rebecca was still here to talk to. Amanda tapped her nails against the polished bar while twisting the crystal on her necklace. She desperately wished for her teacher's council. She could use her support right now. 

The truth of the matter was that even though Amanda was 1200 years old, she was feeling like a clueless newborn. 

She thought she had done the right thing. 

There'd been no time for deliberation. Nick would be happy. Sure, he'd be mad at first, but he'd get over it. He wouldn't lock his door against her. He wouldn't continue to refuse to see her. 

But he had, and he does. 

Okay, so it's only been a few hours, but still. A few hours can seem like forever when faced with something so new and frightening. 

Frightening, all right, so maybe he's not the only one who's afraid -- and he is afraid, his fear is what is masked in anger. 

Her fear? Her fear is not just for Nick but for the burgeoning memories of someone she'd made her peace with long ago. 

"No!" Amanda shouted in the empty bar, shaking her head against the intruding memory. 

Yet, it seemed to slither out beneath the locked door of her thoughts. 

Emile. 

Unwanted, intruding thoughts of Emile were definitely threatening to overcome her. 

Mon Dieu! 

Emile, such a beautiful, passionate man. No, she couldn't allow herself to think on him, not now. She'd made her peace with herself, with him. 

She did! 

Taking another sip of her drink, Amanda gently placed it back onto the bar, the soft clinking sound of glass meeting mahogany played in her ears, tunneling down the well of memories that began to flood her thoughts. 

She wouldn't think of Emile Montrose. 

She wouldn't, yet somehow during the battle with her struggling intentions, her remembrances of him infiltrated her mind, bringing her attention back to another time, to another man... 

* * *

**1553 Paris, Le Reine de Margot  
Wedding Day Massacre**

"Michele, non!" cried Emile as he ran, stumbling over the dead bodies of massacred protestants. His clothes became wet with splattered patches of bloodied mud. 

"Emile! Vein ici," Amanda yelled, calling him back to her as she gripped the side rail and stepped down from the coach. 

He wouldn't listen. 

Amanda watched in horror as Emile collapsed to his knees, pulling the naked body of his lifeless brother onto his lap and into his arms. 

"Non, Non, NON," Emile chanted, crying as he stroked Michele's still and battered face, "Michele, regardez-moi, regardez-moi!" 

Amanda wiped her own tears away, listening to her husband demand Michele look on him once again. She cast a frantic glance about her, but the city road was empty of activity. Only she, Emile and the driver breathed life within the high walls of the surrounding buildings. 

But for how much longer? Surely the Catholics would be back? 

But not even a token dog could be heard disturbing the dead's silence. 

Amanda gagged as the familiar stench of rot and death and bloody devastation perfumed the streets. 

The dead were already turning within the stifling city heat. 

She could hear her own anguish mixing with her husband's sobs as she once again took in the massive devastation of life that lay at her very feet. 

The massacre had come unexpected and swift. Over night, 5000 Protestants were slaughtered on this day of marriage. All of France's nobleman and others who could afford to, came to fill the Parisian streets, each person suffused with trepidation and hope. 

It was a hope that Emile and Amanda shared as well. 

It was to be a celebration of not only wedded bliss, but an end to the holy war between the Protestants and Catholics. 

It would unite France once again. 

King Henri de Navarre was to marry the Catholic Margot, thereby bringing harmony and peace to France, successfully ending the continued bloodshed of religion's civil war. 

But now, now, despite the marriage, all that could be seen was blood. It was the stolen blood of Emile's Protestant brethren, a brethren that Amanda had adopted as well. 

If Emile hadn't been sick on the journey to Paris...if they hadn't had to hole up at a country inn just outside Bordeaux.... 

Amanda shuddered to finish that thought, but finished it became anyway. These horrors would also be comprised of Emile and herself. 

How Emile even saw Michele was remarkable. Michele had fallen right outside of the west walls of the Palace de Louvre, his body at the first set of gates that allowed entrance into the palace grounds. 

From the looks of it, Michele and a slew of others hadn't made it back to their lodgings for the night. The merriment of continuing festivities hadn't even ceased in its entirely before the butchery began, or so told a little boy whom Amanda had caught running out of the city, pure terror masking his features. They had stopped outside of the city walls after spotting an overturned carriage. Upon approaching it, the small boy no more than eight years, sprung from the inside and began to run away from them. 

The driver, Jacques, caught him and brought him back to Emile and Amanda, telling them his story. No amount of persuasion could convince the child to join them and Emile finally let him go. 

The only reason the child had survived was because, as he told them, he'd stripped himself and laid among the dead as the marauding Catholics swept through the area. 

Amanda had watched as he disappeared down the road. The driver, upon Emile's insistence had demanded their carriage to race through the city to the usual boarding house that the Montrose family stayed in whenever they were in Paris. 

Michele, Emile's younger brother, had gone ahead of them to secure their rooms. Both Amanda and Emile prayed that the butchery had missed the beautiful young man. 

But as they entered the city and Amanda witnessed the corpses that began to build in multitude, little hope of Michele's survival filled her heart. 

And she was right. 

After searching the lodgings, Emile demanded that they travel to the palace and it was at the gate that Michele's body was found. The identifying white patch of hair that mixed with the long brown strands, drew Emile's eye instantly, confirming their worst fears. 

* * *

Amanda blinked, wiping a lace covered hand across her eyes and looking back to Emile, who she saw had not moved. Picking her way through the carnage, she reached Emile and laid her hand upon his shoulder, squeezing it. 

"Emile, listen to me," Amanda pleaded. "We have to leave. They could come back at any moment, my dearest. It is not safe for us here." 

Emile did not acknowledge her. 

"Emile!" Amanda said, gripping his shoulder harder. 

"Leave me, Amanda," Emile gasped. "Leave me die, I care not." 

"But I care Emile, I care..." Amanda softly said as she kneeled down beside him, her dress billowing out about her legs. 

Reaching a hand out, she brushed Michele's hair off of his chilled and forever young face, his features frozen in seeming slumber. "I will miss him too...but if we stay here, there will be no one left to mourn him. You understand, Emile? They will kill us both." 

"Not you," Emile said. "Not for long, anyway." 

"Yes, Emile, "Amanda said, stroking the side of cheek. 

"Dying is not pleasant for mortals nor immortals. And if I die here, there is a good chance that I could revive in front of someone. What then, hmm? I'll tell you, my love. I will be met by a sword and my head could be put on a poker. Should that happen, then I will be dead forever." 

Emile did not once look at Amanda, perhaps did not even hear her, his gaze remained focused on his brother. "Did you know that he was in love with you? 

Amanda, desperate, watched as Emile softly stroked back Michele's hair. "It's true. He came ahead of us to secure our rooms because he didn't want for you to sleep in the streets. That's what he told me when he left us in Bordeaux." 

"He was always considerate," Amanda replied, rubbing a hand against Emile's back. 

"And now his consideration has killed him," Emile said. He didn't accuse, he just stated it. 

"God has his reasons, Emile, would you question him?" Amanda asked, trying anything to get through to Emile, to pull him away so that they could disappear from Paris's streets. 

"God," Emile laughed bitterly, "God is a butcher." 

"Emile, no, " Amanda said, shocked." Listen to me, you can't abandoned your faith, not now. It is in times like these that God is the haven you need, you must turn to." 

"No, there is no God," Emile retorted, shaking his head as tears poured from his eyes. 

Amanda felt real fear course through her. Emile was a man who had clung to his religion all his life - to have him abandon it now, now when he needed Him the most, showed a fatalism that would be nearly impossible to pull him back from. 

"Have a care, Emile," Amanda said, running her hand through his graying hair." If not for God, then for me. There is nothing we can do for Michele now. If we stay any longer, we are all dead!" 

"I won't leave him," Emile said, turning his head slightly toward Amanda as she let her fingers stroke his neck. A feeling of slight relief washed over her when Emile met her gaze. 

All was not lost, he was not lost, not completely. Amanda looked around, back at their carriage. 

"Jacques, help us," Amanda ordered. 

The driver hurriedly approached them as Emile rested a hand over Michele's open stare, shutting his eye lids closed. 

"We don't have to leave him, Emile, look we'll place him in the carriage, take him back home with us, yes? Let us leave. Now is the moment, Emile, now!" Amanda coaxed, standing up. 

She watched Emile struggle to his feet with Michele in his arms. He did not allow Jacques to touch Michele but he would allow Amanda to help him and she took what little good sign she could from that. 

Amanda helped him make his way over to the carriage. Finally, the two men were shut up inside. Amanda hopped up upon the driver's perch, grabbing the reins. 

She would not trust Jacques' little bit of experience over her centuries of experience with getting out of touch places. She called on her resources and didn't dare look back as they thundered through the cobble streets, quickly pulling out of the walls of the city, the horse hooves thundering upon the ground and placing more and more distance away from the horror as the wooden carriage wheels furiously turned. 

They made it back to Navarre with little difficulty. 

The true difficulty was yet to come as Amanda struggled to help Emile, to help him find himself again, to rediscover the man that he once was. 

With each passing day, as the weeks turned to months, then evolved to almost a year, Michele's death plagued Emile, destroying him with each succeeding day. 

Amanda could only watch... 

* * *

**Present, Sanctuary**

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she pulled herself out of the memories. The bar lights were dim, the neon surrounding the hanging wine glasses put off a dull, buzzing sound accompanied by an occasional pink flicker. 

Amanda carefully rubbed at her eyes. She reached into her purse that was sitting beside her on the bar top and pulled out a compact, checking her tear-smeared eye make-up. 

Grabbing a napkin off the stack beside the beer tap, she wiped the cloth under her eyes, then paused her actions. 

Snapping the mirror shut, she held it up in her hands, staring at the case until she found herself flinging it over her shoulder. Hearing it hit the floor behind her, the sound of the tiny mirror cracking greeted her ears. 

Sitting up off the stool, she left the crumbled napkin on the bar and reached behind the mahogany surface and pulled out a bottle of Vodka, preparing herself a fresh martini. 

"Emile, for you," Amanda said, pouring back her refreshed glass. She let the base tap against the bar with a loud clink. 

Nick. Now was the time to be thinking on Nick, not Emile. 

Emile was the past -- Nick was now and as such his chances for survival were severely limited. The Gathering isn't too far away. 

So every moment, particularly here in Paris, his chance for any type of an extended life span is precarious at best. 

Holy ground. 

Amanda desperately wanted him on it. She wanted him here at the bar, at Sanctuary. Now was the time to benefit more than ever, this holy ground. 

But he's not here. 

And he won't let her near him. 

Amanda's martini glass joined the shattered compact. 

* * *

**Present, The Seine, 11:30 PM**

Have to get away, just get A-way. 

Walking along the bank of the Seine, I make my path through a part of the city I've yet to see in my three month stint here. It's a part of the city that is in the most opposite direction from Amanda and as such, is a most welcomed terrain. 

I know that I'm bound to find a liquor store, or at least a bar, open somewhere. This is Paris, for Christ's sake. I just have to be patient. 

Hell, I've got for-fucking-ever, right? 

So, I canvas the coble-stoned expanse, my boot heels tapping a tripped beat on the ground as I shuffle along in a slightly drunken swagger. Yeah, I'm guessin' my blood's still flammable. 

The night's actually a bit windy, I can feel the late hour coldness nipping at my hands and cheeks. 

The gusts of air grab at my hair as I huddle my shoulders, tucking my chin into the neck of my jacket for extra warmth. 

Repeatedly squeezing my hands into fists, I get my blood flowing before I end up jamming them into my jeans pockets. 

It's getting pretty damn cold out here. 

I just...I just can't believe its been less than a day, less than six hours ago that my life...what a laugh...my life...was irrevocably changed. 

Crossing under a rare street lamp, I walk on along this strip of the Seine. I wanted the shadows and was glad that I came this way. Turning my gaze toward the Seine's water, I notice that the body looks like a black oil moving with a slight, lapping current against its stone beaches. 

The periodic flop of over-turning water is soothing to me. The sound is reminiscent of home when Dad and I would go out to the jetties down by the Point, right where the bay waters met the canal stream. 

On a calm night the waters would come together, creating a slapping sound as they merged. 

Being at the Point was one of my fondest memories about me and my Pops. It was something we shared together, salt licked and all. We spent hours fishing in the mid-day sun and beyond. 

We'd been...well, we'd been pretty close and it devastated me when my father...When he died. Shit, just thinking about him now...ahhhh fuck. 

I kick a loose stone ahead of me, listening to it crack against the bricks into the swallowing darkness. 

At least Pop's death wasn't a bullet or a knife or anything related to the line of duty like Mom had always feared. No, it was quite simply a heart attack that he couldn't recover from. 

I'd heard the news while I was in officer training. Pops didn't even get to see me...see me graduate and that hurt. I had wanted to make him so proud. 

It was supposed to be our moment together. 

That day, that day had been the hardest of my life, feeling the loss of Pop's cat whistle and riotous enthusiasm as they called my name. 

God, I miss him so much. His gravelly, drill sergeant's voice could bark out a question of " who wanted a hotdog, hamburger, etc" with the same ease of interrogating a perp. 

But, Pops...he's dead and...and I'm not. 

Lauren, my wife, dead too. Christ, I loved her. I understood that she couldn't take the life of an officer's wife. I understood that she had an underlying feeling of dread that the next time the doorbell rang, news of my death would be given with the deepest regrets. 

So, did I blame her? No, not at all, no matter how much I did not want to loose her. 

All these loved ones dead. 

People...people I loved. All of them died and yet I still live. How many times will I fall in love only to watch the ones I love die of old age or sickness?...or...or whatever? 

How many times? 

How many times can I give my heart out before I go mad with grief? Will there come a day when there'll be no pieces of my heart left to give? 

Lauren's death is a torture I just don't want...don't want to repeat. Yet, I know that I can't stop my heart from caring. It's an impossibility. 

Hadn't I fallen for Amanda when I struggled against the very concept of that happening? 

Hadn't I? 

Shit. Where the hell is this morose train of thought coming from? I'm not used to being up front, not even with myself. Bourbon must be the key that's opening my Pandora's box, here. 

Yeah, so I love Amanda... and hate her. Two strong emotions that are often paired together. So, what am I doing right now? 

Running away, that's what. 

I'm just running, from her but then again, not just her but everything that she represents. 

Everything that I'll come to represent once I actually allow myself to accept this...this shit. 

That's what it's all about...accepting. This line of thinking is getting me nowhere and fast. 

Christ, isn't there a bar open anywhere? I check my watch and see that it's 11:48 PM. The city of lights is still shining but not much around here. Still, there should be some kind of place open. 

My gait's slow and ambling. It had finally come to my attention that apparently, immortals can not only get drunk but remain that way for quite a while...and I do know that I'm still drunk. 

It's also come to my attention that immortals can also get sober real quick when...ah, shit... 

I grab my head as a pounding, slithering headache wraps around my temples. 

"Fuck!" I exclaim, grabbing the sides of my head. I give it a slight shake but that accomplishes nothing. The headache rapidly mutes and re-submerges into a sizzling, thrumming, sensation that raises the hairs on my arms and goose bumps my flesh. 

I know this sensation and I'm pissed. 

Didn't she get the hint. I want to be left A-lone. She's absolutely the last person I want to see, and yet the first person I know I need to see...just...just not yet. 

"Amanda, didn't I tell you to leave me A-lone! I told you to just...just stay away," I call out over my shoulder. And like a bad horror flick, a thick fog begins to roll across the Seine and cover its banks, swirling around my legs as it travels higher and spreads further into the surrounding night air. 

I suddenly have the sneaking suspicion that this isn't Amanda. 

"Great!" I mutter. 

Turning around when the sensation continues to persist, I don't see anyone which means nothing. I quickly begin to walk away, giving a quick turn into a side alley and that's when I realize I've made my first and perhaps last mistake. 

The thrumming becomes stronger, forcing me to clasp my temples again against the not yet familiar sensation. I walk right into the direct path of the hidden immortal. 

Shit! 

Yup, it ain't Amanda. I lower my hands as the sensation dulls to a low drone. 

Squinting through the misting fog, I see a man, a man trying to look smaller than he was. I can see him hunching himself, disguising his form. What the hell for? 

I hadn't been a cop for too short a time to not be able to notice when someone didn't want to be seen as they were...and that was what this man looked like. He was an immortal that wanted nothing more but to get lost in a crowd, unlike the flash and pizzazz of one, Amanda Montrose. 

I swallow, my throat dried. This is it then. Again, no choice as to whether I lived or died. This time I will be dying and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I watch as the stranger slides his sword out from beneath his coat. 

Depending on how he held the blade, the stranger's steel caught the dulled street lamp light that streamed into the alley, the fingers of sodium light stretching toward us and creating elongated silhouettes. 

I can feel myself sweating as fear and the prospect of the unknown courses through my thoughts. So, I was granted a small reprieve...I lived less than 24 hours from when my death should have been and suddenly...suddenly I'm calm. 

My racing heart stills as does my racing breath. 

This is what I want, after all. I won't have to imagine, or live a life where I'm the executioner or the executed. 

I believe in life. 

It's one of the reasons I became a cop, to protect the lives of others. How can I possibly go against what I'd personally fastened my whole philosophy on. 

It was hard enough to accept the unacceptable when it came to Amanda...but she's different. She's had centuries to live as she is. 

The sum total of my life doesn't even go beyond thirty-three years. 

Casting my attention back toward the stranger, I notice that it seems like the guy's patiently waiting out my internal arguments. How nice of him. 

With a determined purpose, I turn toward him, taking a few hesitant steps toward the man before slowly dropping to my knees -- first the left then the right. I could feel the cold ground seeping through my pants legs. 

I pull my gaze from the cobbled ground, lifting my head to once again face the stranger. 

If the immortal found my actions strange, the man betrayed no clue. In fact, the man did nothing but stand and watch. He seemed to wait on my actions. 

Well, I was through acting. 

I held the immortal's impenetrable gaze. 

"Do it," My voice is strong and confident. 

I will accept my death the way I have always accepted my life...with honor and dignity. 

I wait for him to take a step forward but he doesn't. Confusion crosses my face as I continue to await the immortal before me. 

What the hell was he waiting for? Perhaps he hadn't heard me. 

"Do it," I repeat, holding the other man's stare. 

It was eerie, how still the immortal held himself before me. He seemed a spectre, a ghost that clung to the shadows and tested my senses as to whether he was even really there. 

Suddenly the man moves, his steps seeming to echo against the pavement and toll in my ears as he walks with strong, purposed steps. I feel my stomach muscles tighten and my heart race, but I do not look away. 

I will not look away. 

The man stops but a few steps away from my supplicant position. He cocks his head to the side and begins to circle me in slow, measured steps. I finally close my eyes, squinting them as each moment passes, each moment that vies to be my last. 

The footsteps still behind me and I am unable to contain a shake, but that is the only movement I allow. 

I jump, feeling the cold, sharp edge of steel rest gently against the side of my neck. My body gives another involuntary tremble of feared expectation. 

I listen as the scrape of shuffled mountain boots step closer toward my back. 

The next thing I know, I can feel the stranger's breath against the side of my neck, warming my skin and the edge of his sword. 

"I think not," the stranger says. 

I feel him pull the blade away and swiftly turn my head around to look at the man when I feel the pommel of the man's sword crash against the back of my skull. Before falling into complete oblivion, I hear the man speak once more. 

"Amanda would have _my_ head." 

* * *

**Present, Front of Sanctuary, 12:30 AM**

"Did you have to do that," Amanda grumbled, walking out of Sanctuary and over to Methos' black SUV. She watched as the back gate was raised and Nick's unconscious repose was revealed. 

"Hey, you called me, remember?" Methos griped, "And how about a little help, here?" 

He gestured to Nick's legs. 

Amanda hurried over to Methos' side and reached in, gripping Nick's calves in her palms. 

"Gods, he's a heavy bastard," Methos complained as he walked backward. Amanda followed with 

Nick's legs in hand as they entered her bar. 

"Second floor," Amanda said. 

"Second floor?" Methos grunted, incredulous as he shifted Nick's weight. 

"Well, we aren't leaving him in the bar," Amanda said, raising an eyebrow. 

Methos grunted again and proceeded up the stairs with Amanda following, "I never should have answered that bloody phone." 

* * *

"So, what are you going to do?" Methos asked, taking another draught of his beer. 

Amanda leaned against the bar beside him. 

"I don't know," she whispered, "It's...it's not like I expected it would be." 

"Never is," Methos offered in response," but you know that already." 

Amanda just looked at him, irked. But her eyes betrayed her true emotions. Tears collected, tears that she refused to let flow freely down her cheeks. Instead she pulled away from the bar and walked across the floor to a nearby table, flicking her hand across her face and swiping at the escaped moisture with each step. 

"Amanda," Methos called to her back. 

"What?" She snapped, turning around to face him. 

"Sorry," she sighed. "I know that. I just...I...I still don't know what to do. He won't listen or talk to me. He blames me for this." 

"Isn't it your fault?" Methos asked evenly, "Isn't it? 

"No!" she exclaimed, indignant. She collapsed back into a wooden chair, whispering, "Yes, maybe, I don't know." 

"Not all of us are capable of this existence," Methos said, walking over to share her table. 

"I know," Amanda said, staring introspectively, "I know..." 

* * *

**Le Havre, France, 1554  
One Year after Wedding Day Massacre**

It was true that Emile and Michele were close but Amanda hadn't recognized - hadn't realized just how close until now. 

Some days, as Amanda walked through the library, Emile would clasp her hand and pull her to him, not to kiss her but to tell her how he had seen Michele. He would then proceed to tell her stories of their youth, mixing them with the events of adulthood. 

Yes, Emile and Michele had been close. They'd had to be. They came from a poor family where food was rationed in near breadcrumbs. 

Their father, Luc Montrose, would make his earnings then toss them away on private card games, leaving his family destitute and starving. On the rare occasions that Emile would speak out against his father's actions, he would find himself confined to a sick bed for days, recovering from the beating inflicted upon him. 

Michele had been a young fragile boy, 10 years Emile's junior. Michele barely spoke above a whisper. He feared his father and consequently, the rest of life. The only one who ever looked out for him had been Emile. 

Their mother struggled enough with working whatever jobs she could come across, even going as far as prostituting herself to which the father would take the earnings from. 

When Luc Montrose was killed during one of his infamous card games there were no tears shed. 

With the lack of Luc Montrose's presence, Emile began to become emboldened, demanding all that life could give him. Even Michele had grown more forward, but he still heavily relied upon his big brother for support and encouragement. And so their entire lives were wrapped up in each other. 

For thirty-seven years, Emile had fought the good fight, leaving the pauper world and gaining the respect of those who knew him. It was no wonder that he'd become rich, even buying a title for not only himself, but his brother as well. 

They would never suffer poverty again! 

Amanda had met Emile at a party of a friend's, fifteen years ago. They'd fallen in love. Amanda, herself, had cultivated royal ties to the protestant king and her fortunes were gathered and used to live a life of comfort and privilege. She'd been poor long enough in her past incarnation. 

Having fallen in love, Emile and she had been matched and happily married for nearly all of those years. 

He'd found out about her immortality and instead of rejecting her, or throwing her to the guillotine, he'd claimed that she had been his guardian angel sent from the heavens to love and cherish. Amanda could never recall loving a man more than she loved Emile, not in all her seven hundred years. 

So, it was with an agonizing devastation to witness such a strong man turn into the shadow of a yesterday memory. When Michele died so did Emile and his ambition for life. He would desperately cling to her, proclaiming his love, but he never touched her intimately. 

She'd thought that perhaps if they could be together then her love would show him a way back to her and their life but he refused her, which tore her apart. It was no matter that he claimed it was not her, but the pleasure and joy of her that he denied himself. 

"How can I allow myself such things when Michele will never have the chance for them again?" Emile would ask. 

One day, while walking the boisterous peddler's market in the village, Amanda was searching out ingredients to use for calming Emile's nerves. It was as she was picking through the various roots that Amanda was interrupted by Claudette, one of their serving girls. 

"Madam, Madam!" Claudette called, running through the maze of tables and stalls to find Amanda with an herb peddler. 

Amanda turned and saw Claudette racing towards her and her heart gripped her toes. 

"What? What it is Claudette?" 

"It's Monsieur," Claudette answered, gasping for breath as she clasped Amanda's forearms, her nails digging into Amanda's arms. 

Dread drenched Amanda from head to foot as Claudette continued. "He is not responding when Lizette came to bring him his lunch. She found...she found laudanum by his side. Madam, he..." 

Amanda didn't waste time. She ran through the market, spotted her carriage and shoved her driver to the side. Grabbing the reins, she slapped the beasts into motion and careened through the muddied streets. They sailed through the air as they followed the rutted road that lead back to the estate. 

"Madam, slow down, the wheels will break," the driver warned, gripping the side rail. And as his warning predicted, a wheel fell into a gully and snapped. 

The carriage dug into the dirt, halting the horses and pitching the two riders forward. Amanda fell to the side. She curled herself into a tumbling ball and was instantly back to her feet, not bothering to turn and check on the driver. 

She ran the rest of the way to their house, her feet pounding the ground, tall grass whipping at her body as she cut through the lily field. 

Crossing onto the graveled drive, she burst through the foyer, her eyes wild and searching out the doorways before hurrying to the library. 

She found Emile in his chair, his eyes rolling and his breathing labored. She slammed the doors closed behind her, turning the lock swiftly. She would not have an audience, not now. 

"EMILE!" Amanda cried, rushing to his side. Sure enough it was an emptied bottle of laudanum that sat on its side upon the table beside him. "Emile, no! NO!" 

"Amanda," Emile struggled to say, "Sorry, je t'aime..." 

"No, no...I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Amanda reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out a concealed dagger. 

"I'm not ready for you to leave me," she whispered. "Emile, EMILE!" 

Emile opened his eyes. 

"Je t'aime aussi...I love you too, so very, very much," she said, then slide the dagger between his ribs and into his heart. Emile's body froze, his eyes pulling from the fog just enough to register what she had done. Then a sort of peaceful smile threaded across his features before his body went slack and he fell back against the chair. 

Amanda knelt on the floor beside his still body, tears cascading down her face as she blindly stared at the pattern of her gown. She could hear alternating knocks upon the barred door as the servants took turns trying to ascertain whether Monsieur and Madame were all right. 

* * *

**Present, Inside Sanctuary**

Methos just stared at her. 

"Couldn't you just, just help me with him," Amanda asked, desperate, "make him understand that it isn't all bad." 

"I don't think so," Methos replied, standing up and grabbing his coat off the bar. 

"What? Wait, where are you going?" Amanda asked, following him as he walked to the door. He stopped suddenly and Amanda halted her steps as well. 

"This is something you need to handle on your own, you know that, you've been through this," Methos took a step closer, his eyes boring into hers. "This is, perhaps, your chance to handle things differently then you had with Emile." 

"Emile," Amanda gasped, wondering if Methos could read her thoughts, but then she remembered his penchant to read Watcher Chronicles. 

Methos covered her hand without saying a word, gave a squeeze, then slipped through the door, leaving her alone... 

* * *

**Le Havre, France, 1554  
One Year Later Continued...**

Finally, Amanda looked up and reached her hand toward the dagger, removing it from Emile's body. She wiped the blood off with the edge of her gown, not caring or noticing the stains that instantly rooted to the material. 

She raised her hand to caress Emile's still face, stroking his cheeks, his eyebrows, his chin. She waited and then her wait was finally rewarded with a struggled gasp for air. 

Amanda watched as Emile's eyes opened once again. She did not have to demand him to look at her; he did it on his own. She did not have to rail against God, because Emile had returned to her, like she had always known he would. 

Emile fell from the couch, vomiting up the dregs of poison that had coated his throat. He fell to his hands and knees, retching until he fell back against the side of the brocade couch. 

"Non, it didn't work," Emile cried, rubbing his lined face. He finally looked up at Amanda and she could see him remembering. 

His eyes narrowed and his head cocked to the side as he regarded her. He suddenly grabbed his temples as if in pain. 

"That will dull in a few moments, darling" Amanda said, daring to speak. 

Emile quickly looked up and caught Amanda's eye. His features were twisted into a mask of unbelievable grief and pain. "Non, I do not want this, this, you did this?" 

He didn't have to explain what he meant. He knew about immortality, if not the specifics. 

"You did this to me," Emile repeated, his voice taking on a bit of strength and certainty. 

"No, no Emile, you were always like this, we are born this way," Amanda said, trying to explain. 

"The laudanum...why didn't you let the overdose kill me then, eh?" Emile asked, his eyes narrowing. 

He had not become a successful and rich man by accident. 

"Mon Cher," Amanda soothed, reaching a hand to his face. 

He flinched away. 

"Amanda, explain," Emile ordered. She knew she had revealed herself. She knew he knew that tone for it was the voice she always used to prepare him for what was to be revealed, fifteen years of hearing it on various occasions filtered in and out of his thoughts. 

She could see it happening, reflected on his countenance. 

"I...I couldn't let you go," Amanda cried, sobbing softly as she sloppily wiped at her eyes with the back of her hands. "The poison would have been too slow, not violent enough. If...if I hadn't used the dagger. You would have been dead...forever and I couldn't bear that. I love you. I need you." 

Amanda clasped Emile's leg, resting her head against it. Emile pulled away from her, pulling himself up and shakily walking toward the settee. 

"I wanted to die," Emile whispered, moving on to walk to a tall window. He stared out. "Now, I will never be with Michele again." 

"But darling, you'll be with me, " she reassured desperately, a weak smile framing her face as she continued, "for as long as we want, for forever if possible. You are immortal, Emile. You were never meant to pass into the night." 

Amanda scrambled to her feet and walked toward Emile. 

Emile held his hand up, halting her. "You can't know that. I would have died and you stopped me. You took away my release from this hell." 

"Hell?" Amanda asked, shocked and saddened. "Life with me has been hell, now?" 

"No Amanda, life without Michele is hell. He was like my son and now, everywhere I go I see him. I can't escape him. I hear his accusations, screaming at me that it was my fault he died...that I let him go, didn't protect him...that I suggested he go." 

"Emile, we can leave. We don't have to stay here where the memories are so vibrant, " Amanda explained, stepping toward him again. 

"There is no where I can be where his voice would be silent. There's no where I can go where I wouldn't see him again, unless...he isn't one..." 

"No," Amanda said, understanding where his question was leading. "He is not immortal." 

"How is it possible that I am and yet he is not?" Emile asked, finally turning away from the window and looking at her. 

"All immortals are foundlings, we have no biological parents. We don' t know why that is, it just happens that way." 

"But I did, I had a maman and papa," Emile argued. 

"You mustn't have, not by blood," Amanda countered. 

She dared to walk closer and this time Emile did not stop her. She reached a hand out and ran it up Emile's muscled arm. "Listen to me, we can leave here. There is so much of life out there to see..." 

"There is nothing to see," Emile whispered, turning to face her. "I will be dead soon." 

"No, Emile, you won't be," Amanda said, clasping his arms. "You are immortal now." 

"I want you to end it Amanda," Emile said, this time holding her arms. "End my life. I know what is needed to be done. Do not think that I haven't seen you fight and win more times than I can count..." 

"What?" Amanda asked, shaking her head," No, I cannot!" 

"Amanda, mon coeur - my heart," Emile coaxed, his eyes wild with desperate need. "You must take my head. I cannot go on." 

Amanda yanked her arms out of his grip and pulled away from him, nearly flying across the distance of the room. "I WILL NOT!" 

"You will do it!" Emile said, stalking towards her." You will do it. I do. not. want. this. life or any life. You know that and yet you gave it to me." 

"Emile, please, think about what you are saying," Amanda pleaded, gripping her chest as if to hold her heart in. 

"I will not learn the sword. I will not fight to survive. I do not want to survive, I may not be able to take poison to end my miserable life, but I can commit suicide just as easily." 

Amanda dropped to her knees slowly, her eyes leaking a steady stream of silent tears. Her love, her life, wanted to die and she knew that ultimately there was nothing she could do to stop it. She cast her tear-blurred gaze upon Emile again, wiping the water away. 

Her skin began to feel hot and her eyes hardened in determination as she climbed to her feet and crossed the room to stand before her husband. 

"Listen to me Emile," Amanda said, stopping before him. "I will never, NEVER take your head. Do you understand me, yes? I will not help you take away my love. I will not!" 

Amanda turned away from him, and crossed the room to the doors. She unlocked them. 

Swinging them open, she stepped around the startled gathering of servants as she climbed the spiral stairs to her bedchamber. She knew that she could not keep him alive if he did not want to be, not unless she devoted her life to being his shadow...and she would be damned if she helped him to die. 

It wasn't long, maybe a week, a month or two, when Emile lost his head and it wasn't even twenty minutes later that his challenger lost his to Amanda. She would keep Emile with her, always, but on her terms. 

**Present, Amanda's**

"Get up," Amanda ordered, standing in the doorway of her spare bedroom. She knew he was awake, even if he lay facing away from her. 

"I said, get up," she repeated coming a bit further into the room. 

"Why?" he asked, his voice wearied and muffled as he continued to face away from her. 

"Because I told you to," Amanda responded, placing the edge of her sword against his neck. 

Nick slowly turned around to lie on his back, facing her. She kept the sword against his skin. 

"I want you to come with me and I want you to come right now," she said, her voice hard and yet her heart breaking. 

* * *

**One Hour Later...**

I looked around the botanical gardens, confused. "Why did you want me to come here?" 

Amanda ignored the question, walking over to touch a flower, breathing in its scent. "Do you know that this is where I come when I feel broken? It calms me, helps me refocus. God, I think I've come here for over three centuries. Of course, when I first discovered this garden it belonged to the King of France." 

I just watched her, wondering where this history lesson was going, my eyebrow raised. 

"Of course, he let me come here, not that I could be stopped. Besides, I liked coming at night, with the wicks lit and the stars watching me. It became a solitude, you know what I mean," Amanda asked, finally facing me. 

"Superman," I supplied, still not quite sure what Amanda was up to. 

"Superman? Oh, yes, and his fortress of solitude," Amanda said, picking up the reference. "But the thing is, Nick, immortals don't have fortresses of solitude." 

I looked at her, puzzled. Walking closer to her, my shoes crunched the graveled path beneath my feet. "Amanda, why are we here?" 

She turned around and I saw the steady flow of tears falling down her cheeks. 

"I want you to forgive me." 

Instantly my memories assault me as I hear the echo of her words from a day ago... 

_"I want you to forgive me," Amanda said, her face solemn._

"For what," I asked, my breath ragged, my throat burning. 

"For this," she replies, and the gun is raised and fired. 

"You're not going to die, you're going to live. You're immortal. 

"I want you to forgive me," she repeats again. The only thing to betray her crying was the silent, yet steady streaming tears. 

I feel like I'm kicked in the gut. I've never seen Amanda like this, ever. 

She is the strong, sassy, take no shit or prisoners type of woman. She isn't someone who...she isn't the type of woman that I see before me now, but then again, perhaps she is this woman too. 

Amanda isn't an easy to figure out and maybe I've been too hasty in thinking I know her as well as I think I do. 

Forgive her? 

How can I? 

"I...I..." I stammer, watching her watching me. 

She pulls her sword out. 

"Get on your knees," she orders. 

This time her voice wobbles only slightly. And now, now I understand. 

I smile. For perhaps the first time since reawakening to this...this hell, I smile. 

"Thank you Ama...." 

"Damn it, just get on your knees, will you, Nick," Amanda says, her tone strangled. 

I can see her fighting to remain in control of herself. 

Without another word, I fall gently to my knees, slowly tilting my head up to look her in the eye. 

"Do it," I say, and I know this time there will be no reprieve. She will do as I ask, the truth of it is reflected in the tight coil of her stance. 

Amanda walks over to me, reaching a hand to slide against my cheek. I feel her spread wet streaks on my cheek and realize that they are my own tears that I am crying now. 

I tilt my face into her palm, then turn my head, kissing the inside of her hand. I look up at her again, my voice solid and sure, "Do it." 

Amanda lets out a shaky sigh, nodding her head. She takes a step back. 

"Amanda," I call out for one last time. 

"Yes," she asks, beaten down. 

"I forgive you," I softly say like a caress as I tilt my face toward the gazing stars. 

I hear the graveled crunch again as she walks closer...and then I close my eyes forever, finally able to receive my peace. 

* * *

Amanda looked at his supplicant body and she knew she had to do what she had set out to do. 

She ran a hand across her face, wiping the collected moisture away before clasping the hilt of her sword within both of her hands. 

Funny how she could hear the slight breeze carrying the dulled sound of traffic. How the sound of night bugs and various creatures creaked and cheeped louder and sharper than ever before, or so it seemed to her. 

There was to be no more delay. 

"Good-bye Nick, it's been heavenly," Amanda said, stepping closer and raising her sword over her shoulder. She took one last sigh, before squinting her eyes closed and swinging the blade around..... 

.....and around. 

Amanda ripped her eyes open as the momentum of her swing took her full circle, something that shouldn't have happened. 

She looked at Nick and saw him a few feet away, laying on the ground and breathing heavily. 

She dropped her sword from her hands and ran over to him. 

"Nick," she screamed, falling to her knees beside him as she clasped his shoulder in one hand and his face in the other. She was smiling deliriously. 

"It was my choice," Nick said, simply. 

Amanda nodded her head vigorously, gloriously happy. Her silent tears turned into loud, body wrenching sobs as she literally pulled him from the ground and into her arms, rocking him. 

She kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his hair and finally his mouth. 

And he kissed her back, both of them filled with a desperate need to reassure the other. 

They pulled apart, staring as they realized what just happened. 

"Nick, God, I'm sorry...I..." Amanda whispered. 

Nick reached a hand up to trace the edge of her face, and shushed her with a warm kiss. "This was my choice, too." 

He pulled Amanda against him, kissing her temple as he looked around, the stars casting their ethereal glow, "My choice." 

I'd like to thank Lisa Krakowka for her help with Methos. 

And I would love to thank Kaci for transcribing my desperately needed last scene of dialogue between Amanda and Nick in the last episode of _Highlander: The Raven_. 

Thank you!!!! 

© 1999   
Please send comments to the author!   
  
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